Hellbound: The Tally Man (25 page)

The voices became more intense, as though reacting in response to what had just occurred. Tommy stepped over Ellie’s tiny body and knelt in front of Obadiah, casually wiping the blade of the knife on his jacket.

“I know you won’t understand these feelings you’re having, how could you? You’ve only ever imposed them on others… never had to face them yourself. The Tally Man, capricious, cruel and resoundingly evil…at the end, seeing the truth of everything.” He tapped Obadiah gently on the forehead with the knife blade. “Those voices you can hear, the ones bouncing around your head. They’re not a figment of your imagination. They’re real. Real in the sense that those people are talking about you right now. It’s quite a journey you’ve been on, Obi. But every journey, though it has a first step, also has an end. And you’ve almost arrived at yours.”

Tommy stood and signaled for the masked men to move Ellie’s body. Obadiah watched as they grabbed her by the arms and dragged her into the corridor, all the time finding himself unable to move, as though the very voices around him were paralyzing.

Tommy circled around behind Obadiah, striking him hard on the back of the neck. Falling to the floor, his vision blurred, he saw the men return and stand around him in a semi-circle.

“I think it’s time you looked upon the real face of evil, Obadiah. Time you saw whose been guiding you down this path all this time.”

Tommy knelt behind him and pulled his head backwards so he couldn’t avert his gaze. One by one, the men removed their masks, all the time their movements familiar and yet alien to him. It was as though he were watching someone doing an impersonation of himself.

“Say hello to darkness, Obadiah Stark.”

He looked upon the men before him, their faces an exact reflection of his.

“Meet the man responsible for all of this…you.”

Obadiah’s scream reverberated through the house, its echo carrying high into the night.

‘Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has thought.’

Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

Chapter Twenty-One

October 4th
14:36

Leixlip (Léim an Bhradáin)

County Kildare, Ireland

SECRETS. Aspects of information marked by the habit of discretion. Dangerous though they can be, secrecy is often utilised to protect others from that which may cause harm or damage. Whether unavowed or esoteric, the secret can be kept dormant for the longest of time. But like anything buried, it will eventually find its way to the surface.

This is when the secret can become a something more than originally intended. Once discovered, and dependent on its nature, it can often become a weapon. Held over someone or something, the secret can take on a life of its own, bidding all of those who share it into its web of unavoidable deceit and deception.

To the keeper of the secret, it can be a source of great power.

To those who wish it kept, it can become motivation like no other.

* * *

Joe stared at the house, taking note of the accumulated rubbish on the front garden. A car in the throes of being cannibalised sat on the drive, propped up on bricks. The surrounding garden was akin to a miniature jungle, overgrown hedgerows and knee-high grass. Climbing from his car and making his way through a gate hanging on one hinge, Joe considered whether he would be attacked by some feral beast hidden in the undergrowth. Making it up the path unimpeded, he knocked on the front door before turning to look around. Beyond the wilderness that was Dunwall’s garden stood The Wonderful Barn, its external flight of ninety-four steps curling round its corkscrew shape. Built to function as a grain barn, Joe had always thought it made an interesting folly to the Leixlip horizon.

He knocked on the door again and waited a few moments before opening the letterbox. He could hear a television in the background, but peering through saw nothing.

“Mr. Dunwall,” he shouted through the opening. “My name is Joe O’Connell. I’m a journalist with The Daily Éire. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time?”

Listening intently, he heard nothing. “It concerns The Brethren.”

Joe saw the front curtain flick aside followed by the sound of keys being turned and latches being released moments later. An unkempt, grey haired man stared through the opening, his eyes glazed as though intoxicated.

“Can I see some I.D, please,” Lewis Dunwall asked.

Joe produced his press card from his pocket and held it up. His eyes flitted between the pass and Joe’s face before he seemed satisfied he was talking to the card’s owner.

“So, Mr. O’Connell…What do ya want?”

“I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Dunwall. During the course of my research into Obadiah Stark, I’ve come across The Brethren’s name. One or two things don’t quite add up…”

“Isn’t the Stark story old news?” he interrupted.

“Well, some new information has recently come to light, and I think you can help me with the details.”

“You’re the journalist. Isn’t uncovering details supposed to be yer job?”

“It is. And they produced your name.”

“I can’t help ya,” Dunwall snapped as he began to close the door. Joe stuck his foot in the opening.

“It’s important. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. It’ll be strictly confidential, I promise.”

“For every promise, there’s a price to pay, Mr. O’Connell.” Dunwall replied, anxiously scanning the street behind Joe. “I’ll give ya ten minutes,” he conceded. “Then ya leave, understand?”

Joe nodded. “I understand.”

Dunwall opened the door wider to allow Joe passage, his body language failing to hide contempt for the journalist. Stepping inside, his senses were immediately assaulted by a musty smell which he could only assume was coming from the books and newspapers piled high along the passage. Glancing into one of the boxes as he passed, Joe saw references to both The Brethren and Stark on the newspapers inside. Brittle and yellow, their advertisements showed wasp-waisted women in full skirted, calf-length dresses with gingham prints, indicative of the 1950’s. Joe frowned, confused at his thinking The Brethren were a fairly modern company. He pushed the detail to the back of his mind and continued looking around him, the peeling wallpaper and signs of damp on the ceiling indicating its inhabitant had little pride in his house or its value. As they moved towards the kitchen, Joe scanned the living room as they passed, seeing it was in the same state of disrepair with more boxes stacked against the surrounding walls. Lewis Dunwall had obviously become a hoarder during his time away from the world. Joe felt sadness at seeing how one man’s life had become desolate.

Ushering his unwanted guest to a seat around the small kitchen table, Dunwall sat down opposite, his twitching hands scratching at the stubble on his chin. Joe glanced around, noticing the pots and cups piled beside the sink and takeaway boxes scattered across the kitchen bench, more evidence of the man’s pathetic existence.

“So, what do ya want to know? How much they paid me fer my silence? How they discredited me after firing me? How they ruined my life and made me so afraid I daren’t even step outside anymore? Whatever I tell ya is off the record…I’m not being held to anything I say.”

Joe pulled his chair in towards the table. “I appreciate this must be hard for you, Mr. Dunwall. But all I really need to know is a little about the events leading up to you leaving The Brethren.”

“Leaving? Fired, ya mean.”

Joe shrugged in acquiescence.

Dunwall dropped his head, mumbling to himself. He began to speak without making eye contact.

“I worked in the legal team. We dealt with the cases as they came in, reviewed them and decided whether they qualified as suitable.”

“What were the criteria for suitability?” Joe asked.

Dunwall lifted his head to stare at Joe. “Archard’s criteria,” he replied flatly.

Joe nodded but remained silent.

“When I first joined, we would get maybe six or seven cases a week. A year later, we were taking six and seven a day. They were mostly high profile cases but we did receive the odd small one…traffic accidents, fraud, that kind of thing. People looking for justice where they felt the system had let them down.

“Anyway, I remember the day the Stark case came in…files as thick as War and Peace. All from relatives who felt Stark’s death sentence hadn’t been enough. Ironic, isn’t it, the death sentence not being enough.”

Joe smiled but remained silent.

“That’s what The Brethren do. They do things fer those who don’t think enough was done.”

“Which is what exactly?” Joe pressed.

Dunwall stood suddenly and moved towards the back door, pacing. “I don’t think yer appreciate how powerful they are. They hold a lot of sway with the government, mostly because of what they offer. Yes, a lot of it is above board, but they have another agenda beneath the public façade.”

“Which is what?”

Dunwall stopped pacing and looked directly at Joe. “Providing unique solutions.”

“To what?”

“The perceived inequality of justice,” Dunwall replied.

Joe stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And these solutions are… illegal?”

Dunwall’s answer came in a hesitant, staccato reply. “They’re…less than…moral.”

“What do you mean?”

Dunwall hesitated. “Mr. O’Connell, the last time I tried to tell this story I ended up out of a job, my pension frozen, divorced with my house repossessed and branded a liar in the media. I mean, look around ya. I don’t live in the world anymore, I just exist in it. They took everything I had away from me. Forgive me if I’m not fallin’ all over ma’self to tell ya everything.”

Dunwall began pacing faster, his agitation evident. “I believe in justice. I believe in the law and that just and equal punishment should be metered out to those who deserve it. I’ve followed everything those bastards ‘ave done since I was fired, buying every newspaper, following up on every story, wanting to see how they could continue to get away with it. The justice they offer feeds on people’s basic desire for revenge when wronged, but…”

“I can assure you, I treat all my contacts with the strictest confidence,” Joe reassured him. “There’d be nothing linking you to anything I used.”

Dunwall sat back down, his head in his hands. “It wouldn’t matter,” he replied with a heavy sigh.” They’d figure out it was me who had talked soon enough. I don’t think you’d even believe me if I told you what they were capable of anyway.”

“Try me?” Joe challenged.

Dunwall looked around in an unquiet manner, his eyes wide and fearful. “Stark wasn’t the first. They’ve been doing this for years. You saw the boxes, right? They’re full of articles, newspapers, going all the way to the early thirties. They’re not new to this game, they’ve just been ahead of the curve enough so that no one ever really latches on to what they do…hiding in plain sight ya might say. Sure, most of their work is mainstream stuff and always has been, but the really dark cases, the ones where people want justice for terrible things…that’s where The Brethren shine. Go back, to the West Mesa murders, Lisbon Ripper, Connecticut River Valley killer…ask ya’self why these killings stopped abruptly. Go back further…Monster of Florence, Cleveland Torso murderer…ya know better than most, serial killers don’t just stop, but these did.”

“You’re not seriously telling me that The Brethren were involved with any of that?” Joe responded incredulously.

“They’ve done all of that an’ more, wielding more power than ya could possibly imagine or that anyone has the right to possess. And this power was never more evident than with Obadiah Stark. Let me ask ya a question, do you think he’s dead?”

“No,”

Joe responded flatly. “I don’t know why I think that, but my investigation seems to always be alluding to the fact that his execution was more a performance.”

Dunwall leaned forward, his eyes displaying intensity that Joe found unnerving. “An’ you’d be right to think that.”

“So, where the hell is he?”

Dunwall held Joe’s gaze as though still uncertain whether to continue. “Obadiah Stark is currently being held in a Brethren-owned facility on Tearaght Island, just west of the Dingle Peninsular, and has been there since 7th September following his ‘execution’.”

“And he’s still alive?”

Joe asked with discernible excitement.

“They have him in an artificially-induced coma for want of a better word. This allows them to do what they need to and what they’re expected to.”

“Which is?”

“Ensure he suffers.”

Joe fell heavily against the chair’s backrest, staggered at what he was hearing.

“Why?”

“Because the victim’s relatives wanted something done and were willing to pay handsomely for the privilege. But money doesn’t spend in Hell, Mr. O’Connell. The devil deals in different coin. I keep telling ya, sometimes justice isn’t enough,” Dunwall insisted. “Obadiah Stark, at this very moment, is probably experiencing more pain and anguish then he ever imagined possible. But not physically…mentally. The Brethren would never lower themselves to something as crude as physical torture. What they do is far more sophisticated. Subject evil to darkness, and all you will do is harden its resolve. To get to a monster like Stark, you have to give him something to believe in, someone to care for. You have to give him a heart. Only then can you tear it out.”

Joe was reminded of Evans’ comments.
“Some people feel they have to at least appreciate the gravity of their actions before they die. Otherwise true justice hasn’t been achieved.”

“Can you prove any of this?”

Dunwall absently looked around him, all tenacity gone from his face as though realising the consequences of what he had done. “I can give ya a name…someone who was involved from the start. I saw her meet Archard on a number of occasions. She knows about Stark, about everything.”

“Who is it?”

“Carter,” he replied with a sigh. “Victoria Carter.”